


Roadrat Drabble Collection

by LittleGremlin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, most of these were promt fills from tumblr, really old fic getting uploaded here, some lemons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25062874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGremlin/pseuds/LittleGremlin
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Drabbles posted over from my tumblr for prosperity's sake.
Relationships: Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Roadhog | Mako Rutledge
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Rusty

**Author's Note:**

> Back in about 2016 I wrote a ton of Overwatch drabbles featuring Roadhog and Junkrat - a lot of the lore, comics or shorts hadn't been released *yet* (except for a few panels of the Going Legit comic that were previewed) so some of this won't necessarily fit into what we know and have now.

Kookynie was bitterly cold at night.  
  
Derelict buildings and rusted-out cars cast stark, dark shadows across a barren, achingly dead landscape.  
With a population of only ten, the old goldmining town had been practically deserted, and a ghost town since the explosion; radiation changing or killing near everything.  
  
Roadhog was not _unsettled_ by the silence - so strong it pressed against one’s ears - he just didn’t _trust_ it.  
  
Junkrat meanwhile, assuming his bodyguard was asleep, had been ever so slowly rolling towards the One Man Apocalypse. Roadhog gave heat off like a nuclear generator (and he would know, having been stuck riding behind him on the man’s customized chopper for the last week or so) and while Junkrat wasn’t a _snuggler_ , the whole ‘shivering in the desert with a runny nose’ schtick was getting pretty old. Fast.  
  
What hadn’t been blown-up, burnt out or simply destroyed by raiders passing through had already been scavenged by quick-fingered Junkers. But now the town was an empty husk, bereft of anything that might so much as be used for bedding or warmth and so, the pair of them slept on the floor in the only room that had four walls and a roof left. Yet, it was still cold as tits.  
Roadhog didn’t seem at all affected, however.   
He tried not to make a sound against the threadbare rug - moth-eaten holes and decades of use revealing swathes of worn, sun-bleached floorboards that creaked and groaned with movement in the pre-federation house they’d shacked up in for the night. But as he carefully eased a mere inch away from Roadhog, the damnable floorboards creaked and Roadhog grunted.  
  
“You should be sleeping.”  
  
Well, this was unexpected. Junkrat froze in place, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end having been caught out. “Can’t.”  
  
“Hn.”   
  
There was a lot of meaning to a simple grunt or utterance that would take Junkrat some time before he understood the vocabulary of it, but for now, he licked at chapped lips before asking, “Aren’t ya gonna shove me away n’ tell me to go back to sleep?”  
  
The One Man Apocalypse meanwhile, observed the quiet breaths from the soot-smeared blonde, the faint murmur of his heartbeat in the quiet room. “Hmm-” He breathed after a moment, chest rumbling. “-must be getting rusty.”  
  
Roadhog went back to - well not exactly sleep, but some kind of restfulness, ready to awake at the slightest sound of disturbance. He didn’t comment when Junkrat eventually curled up against his side, soft snores and snuffles coming from the smaller man and in turn, Junkrat didn’t suddenly awake as Roadhog curled one arm around him, drawing him closer.  
  
It made sense to after all; it wasn’t like he wanted Junkrat wiping his snotty nose on his back on the ride down to Coolgardie anyway.   
  
It was, in his own way, his own selfishness. And certainty nothing else.


	2. Horizon

Singapore had crystalline clear nights, perfect for fireworks.  
  
The first exploded in a momentous clash of colour and sound and Roadhog, for a moment, thought it had been a flash-bang, that their ascent to the office rooftop aside the bank hadn’t gone unnoticed but the crackle and twinkle of falling sparks, coupled with Junkrats elbowing - _Hey! Hog, look! Look!_ \- had the other man blinking, some distant, long-past memory turning over in his head slowly like a river stone caught in silt.   
  
“Huh.”  
  
Junkrat however has bounded over to the building’s ledge, using a radio antenna as means of purchase as he leaned over the side of the 30-odd story building as he tried to get a better look, maybe discern where they’d come from. “What was that, some kinda flare?”   
  
“No, fireworks.”  
  
More spiraled into the air, with high-pitched shrieks before they exploded, and Roadhog figured, at least he was surprised, that Junkrat wasn’t whooping and cheering in delight - the little explosives loving delinquent - but his next question gave the giant pause.  
  
“How’d you know what they are? They some kinda new weapon or something?”  
  
It was almost funny.   
  
“No.” He intoned, explosions of pink, gold, blue and green dotting the sky. Then, with a rumbling sigh, he sat, his back against an air conditioning unit that groaned as it bore his weight.   
“They just haven’t been around for a while.”  
  
Before the Omnic explosion anyway. Before twisted metal and corpses decorated the landscape. And before the radiation had changed things, transforming Roadhog from a man into a nightmare.  
  
“Huh.” The blondes voice was muted, more intent to watch that listen but after a solid minute, he turned back with another question at his lips;  
“So like, Ya didn’t exactly answer me the first time I mean-” he used the antennae to swing around, one foot out in a demented pirouette that took place over a high ledge. “-what’re they for anyway? Signalling or what, Hog?”  
  
Junkrat swung back as the next set of fireworks decorated the night sky, and Roadhog likewise waited for them to fade before he answered.  
  
“Fun.” Junkrat head turned back to look at him and the larger man ‘hmm’d’ before adding, “For celebrations and any other stupid excuse.”  
  
“Huh.” Junkrat looked back to the spectacle, “Cool.”  
  
There was a certain flatness in his tone that was difficult for Roadhog to quantify, but he’d never been in the business of parsing through other people’s feelings anyway. He settled back and watched the display - it’d be pointless now to try and do the robbery with Junkrat distracted as he was - and the bank wasn’t exactly going anywhere. It could wait.   
  
Later, Junkrat sat beside him and while the blonde eagerly mused over the display ‘ _-Calcium and sodium and salts do ya think? Those orange ones were right pretty I mean an’ the blue too, yeah? Gotta be some copper n’ maybe chlorine for something that bright-_ ’ the One Man Apocalypse watched the smoke slowly disperse in the gradually lightening horizon sky.


	3. Fall

It happened in glances, in small snatches of moments, like slowly figuring out a jigsaw puzzle.

Like a solid, massive form shielding him from wayward gunfire and shrapnel, His masked head bowed to his, the One Man Apocalypse grunting as a canister of Hogdrogen clicked into his mask, the vapours already doing their work as he turned and roared back in dissent, massive hook already in hand as it spun wicked arcs that did not speak well for anyone in the way.  
  
Or enormous hands that could (and had) crushed a man’s skull, nails immaculately clean and kept while fingers that have had their fair share of gouging out eyeballs tenderly caressed the bike’s innards, carefully tending to that one cylinder that hadn’t been sounding right since taking the 95 to Kumarina.  
  
It was odd, because Junkrat didn’t _fantasise_ , not exactly. It wasn’t lustful thoughts of kisses or pinning or being pinned down just…an itching _want_ that burned up his skin and made his jaw clench, his intestines coil and stomach ache as if he’s just skulled sour milk.

He wanted. But, he didn’t know quite _what_ he wanted. He wanted in ways the Junker didn’t know how to act on. 

He knew the precise measurements or potassium chlorate or nitroglycerine for just the right explosion (but then again, there was no such thing as an imperfect explosion. They were all bright and loud and beautiful) and he could estimate just the ideal trajectory a grenade should launch and fall for maximum (bewitching) impact.

But figuring out his exact feelings for his bodyguard made him want to tug at his hair and pace and bite his nails. To which Roadhog, annoyed by the restlessness, would ask him what had the other Junker in a fizz and well, he couldn’t exactly answer that, could he?

And Roadhog, his mask making a mystery of his features, no errant twitch of brow or lips for Junkrat to read from, either did not notice nor care that his charge was silently going _nuts_.


	4. Coke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly nsfw. Very dumb.

Things, of course was made worse when having stopped by Nullagine for a while - Roadhog having stalked off, some wheezing rumble about needing to take a leak - Junkrat had stood to stretch, trying to shake the ride out of his joints and muscles, arms stretched over his head as he went to inspect an ancient coke machine from a lost, bygone era (you never knew your luck, the stuff lasted forever, or so they said) and proceeded to try and pry it open, metal fingertips from a unlucky omnic robot unable to _quite_ get the leverage they needed.

How embarrassing. Out-done by a hunk of junk probably from the _2000_ ’s. The demolitionist, sweet sugar nectar on his mind, gave the machine a solid kick and went to ask Roadhog if he’d kept that crowbar or if it was still lodged in that one bloke’s head back near Reedy when he rounded the corner and came across Roadhog, dick in hand.

Well, he had gone to take a piss, hadn’t he?

Roadhog growled a ‘What?’ tucking back in and doing up his overalls and the blonde struggled to remember why he’d come over in the first place. Something to do with metal? Cans? Coc-

“Coke.” He spat out, blinking, as he looked over Roadhog’s sloping shoulders towards a burnt-out bus. “I mean, There’s um, a coke machine-” _dick_ “-and uh, just hopin’ we kept that prybar somewhere.” _Dick dick dick_

“Hn. No.”

But Roadhog had already walked past him, and Junkrat might have asked if the white-haired junker could rip it open with his hook like a can opener, but he was currently having a very hard time getting the image of-

“You really want coke?” Roadhog’s mask didn’t reveal anything, but by his tone, his nose was probably wrinkled. “It’s probably nothing but solid sugar, what’re you going to do, _lick it?”_

Junkrat closed his eyes, and slowly exhaled through his nose. _Dick dick dick dick dick dick d-_ “Y-yeah that um, that sounds. Really. Uhm-”

If Junkrat’s verbal stumbling had caught Roadhog’s attention, he didn’t show it. Instead, he sized up the gently-curving plastic overlay over a steel frame, dug the hook into one side and with a grunt, pulled the door clean off.

“Oh, cool.” _Dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick_

“Don’t get your hopes up, it’s empty.”

“Oh.” _Dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick dick_

Junkrat didn’t sound too bothered by the news, the blonde having other things on his mind.


	5. Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion to Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written around the time were the Going Legit comic hadn't been posted yet, but that one image of Mako holding a tiny espresso cup had been leaked?

It was somewhere between Nepal and Turkey that Roadhog began to take notice. Or rather, he’d always noticed, but he hadn’t really thought much if it - chalking it up to Junkrat’s need to touch and poke and prod _everything_ and then light it on fire and just talk, talk, _talk_.   
  
But they’d reached Melbourne and over petit fours and real coffee that wasn’t a tar-like chunk of _Nescafe 43_ , Junkrat had sold his secret and by all means, Roadhog could have just taken his share of the money and left. His job of body guarding the complete _nuisance_ done.  
  
But he didn’t. He chose to follow instead; thinking that he’d spent far too long in the shithole of a country, that it was time to go out and ride along roads yet unexplored.  
He would, of course, never consider that although Junkrat did many, _many_ things that wore down on Roadhog’s usually tireless amount of patience, the unhinged Junker, horribly and most terribly, had…had _grown_ on him. Like a festering melanoma.

(Clearly, it was Stockholm-syndrome on his part as some kind of method to cope being in the blonde’s company.)   
  
Although perhaps, for one, Junkrat enjoyed causing mayhem as much as he did with a flair for destruction that the masked bodyguard found agreeable, even though there were fewer bones cracking and popping under pressure, sinew and muscle torn ripped to shreds with sharp metal and rather, more explosions. But in the end, they both created a symphony of violence and terror that left the man feeling warm and satisfied. 

The second, damnably, was despite everything, Roadhog lik- _tolerated_ Junkrat’s company. It was the kind of thought that should the One Man Apocalypse mull over, he’d push it away; disturbed and angered at his own line of thinking. Roadhog; lone rider and ruthless killer of the Outback wastes did not _enjoy_ company unless it was hearing the last gasps of a deathrattle; lungs filling with blood as a heavy, sharp hook has impaled them through the chest-

He _liked_ quiet. He _liked_ being alone.  
  
But as noisy and talkative and annoyingly hyperactive and an all-around pain in the ass that Junkrat was…the idea of him going off and leaving Roadhog behind didn’t sit right with the larger man - like a heavy weight settling across his shoulders and prickled at the inside of his stomach and lungs.  
  
It wasn’t as if he’d become attached _willingly_ (again, it was obviously the Stockholm at play, or so he’d tell himself) but clearly, he’d have to accompany the little idiot because Junkrat wouldn’t survive on foreign soil for two whole minutes before walking off a cliff or get mauled by a bear or _something_.

 _And it was nothing_ \- Roadhog would insist to himself - _absolutely nothing else._


	6. The Tool Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place....after the Going Legit comic?

Sydney weather, much like her Melbourne sister, is a temperamental mistress; but no more that what roiling, irradiated clouds that crawled across outback skies brought. From bright clear skies, clouds had gathered, cold drizzle making everything gleam in the light of neon signs and car lights.

Blowing up that city wanker’s building had lifted Jankrat’s soured mood, the heat and light from such a sublime explosion had left his skin prickling with elation, his ears ringing with…well tinnitus, mostly.  
  
But nonetheless, arms stretched out to the side like some kind of filthy, singed bird, he relished in the sensation as air rushed over his arms from his position in the motorbike’s sidecar and Roadhog, having eyed his charge’s current state, gunned the engine, ducking and weaving betwixt city traffic harder and faster, Junkrat breaking into whoops and hollers of unbridled glee.

–

No one, oddly enough, batted an eye at the pair of them as both Junkers continued up Oxford Street; for one, motorbike tours were a common enough occurrence and secondly, unbeknownst to the pair of them, a pair of oddly dressed men - one of whom wore a latex mask - wasn’t really too strange a sight on a Saturday night in the throng of Sydney’s gay district.

Roadhog, carefully taking in and categorising every minute detail based on how much of a threat anything could become, had already noticed this - as any bodyguard worth their salt would - but Junkrat, forever a shade of carefree obliviousness, had instead started to Roadhog’s thigh in a staccato rhythm, his other, omnic limb pointing out at something he’d seen. “Pull over! Pull over!”

What Junkrat had found, was a particularly unobtrusive blue neon sign over a small dark entrance that went down - there was no storefront on street level, it wares away from view underground.

‘Tool Shed’ the sign proclaimed, simply and not ostentatiously and the explosives expert found himself nodding approvingly. At least this lot of city wankers knew the importance of a good hardware store.

He’d already jumped out, scrabbling over to the entrance before Roadhog could pull over, some yell of “Be right back!” Thrown over a grenade-slung shoulder to which Mako could only grumble under his breath; Junkrat in a hardware store was not a simple, nor short venture.

–

He’d waited a good five minutes, and having decided that was long enough as any longer, something was either going to catch fire, explode (or both), the one man apocalypse swung off the low rider, gave it a fond parting pat and stepped heavily over to the entrance-

-only for his charge to plough into him.

Well, at least he didn’t need to pry him away from the chemical isle this time.

He chuffed. “They didn’t have what you wanted?”

Jamie was oddly quiet, his face having taken on a deep, contemplative look, mentally gnawing over something. “Mn.”

It was practically unknown for them to reverse their roles, Roadhog having more to say than his counterpart, but the larger man guided Junkrat back to the bike, and not soon after the pair were off again, Roadhog occasionally looking over to where the smaller man was seated, Junkrat still silent and thoughtful.  
  
-

Later, illuminated by the small screen of a burner phone, Junkrat carefully searched for the store he’d previously been in, and making his selection, looked back at the still form of a (maybe) sleeping Roadhog before placing an order, a pilfered credit-card that hadn’t yet been cancelled clutched in the palm of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Tool Shed is an actual place. And no, it's not a hardware store. :)


	7. Afternoon Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

Gentle or tender were not descriptors befitting either of them, and while the larger of the two was mindful of his size, it wasn’t enough of a concern that he had the little rodent bent over the side of a ramshackle workbench; repurposed steel and slap-dash concrete creaking with the force of every thrust and push like a storm threatening to tear a house apart.

Mako wasn’t even breaking a sweat despite the Darwin heat - clammy and sticky perhaps. Jamison ‘Junkrat’ Fawkes was a different story altogether; bathed in sweat and bright red, he gasped and swore and then swore some more, blunt digits digging into Roadhog’s thick arms where they’d by no doubt leave a smattering of bruises later.   
  
Back arching, hips cocking, the blonde gasped and moaned in pleasure, yes, but also pain brought on by the fact that while Roadhog had been generous with lubricant, he hadn’t been patient to ease his way in. But then again, when had either of them ever been subtle?   
  
Junkrat came with a shout, eyes rolling in the back of his head, his frame trembling with a veritable warhead of endorphins as the orgasm hit him full-on. But Roadhog continues, rutting hard and deep with the occasional grunt like some angry beast until he himself is sated, not bothering to pull out; thick, calloused fingers digging into sun-warmed bony hips that try to wriggle away as he does so.   
  
“Ah, for fucks sake mate-” There’s no bite in it, Junkrat is sprawled across the benchtop like a lizard contently sunning itself. “You could’ve pulled out, plenty to wipe yourself down with.” There’s a heavily oil-stained rag and a wayward sock - and that wasn’t including Junkrat’s shorts flung across the floor like a peculiar rug - and even in saying that, the explosive enthusiast wipes whatever jizz that landed on his stomach with the palm of his hand before wiping it off on the underside of the bench.   
  
Mako merely snorts at the retort and takes a moment to pull out, Jamison gasping a " _ fucking- sonovabitch" _ as he does so, while the larger man begins pulling up and buckling his pants once more.   
  
Bony elbows prop up a red-faced but otherwise pleased Junkrat who, wriggling his toes, attempts to roll back and spring forward off the bench but stops, legs curling up in discomfort as he rolls back and hisses through his teeth.   
  
“Jesus fuckin’  _ christ-”   
  
_ Roadhog doesn’t pay too much mind to this, but his attention is otherwise forced to return to the smaller man as Junkrat begins to prod him in the side with his peg leg.   
  
The bodyguard once again reminds himself that he really needs to add a tennis ball to the end of that thing if the demolitions expert is going to continue to jab him with it. Nonetheless, lenses glint in the dim light, the larger man snorting in an irritable and unspoken ‘ _ What? _ '

Junkrat continues to whine and huff before he blurts; “Look ya know I’m all for this and I ain’t  _ complaining  _ or nothing except for the yanno, slight fact you could stand to use your fingers more before you jam in like that because really a bit of lube can only do so much-”   
  
Roadhog turned to go.   
  
“- _BUT!_ ” Junkrat continued, his voice going up an octave as the other junker turned his back. “As I was  _ saying _ , I wasn’t complaining mate, just uh, as it so happens  _ Ican’treallywalkatthemoment _ .” The last part came in a rush and Junkrat paused before he continued. “An' I want a cuppa.”   
  
The air within the work shed it cloying and stuffy and Mako shifts from foot to foot, dust and dirt crunching beneath his feet while floorboards groan before he makes his decision and scoops Junkrat up in an impromptu bridal carry.    
  
Knowing better than to comment upon this, Jamison instead rests his head against the giant slab of a chest and sighs. Roadhog would likely drop him and leave him in the dirt were he to say so but the larger man is warm and soft but also kind of firm like memory foam or something and idling over this, Junkrat falls asleep in Roadhog’s massive arms.   
  
The sliding door opens with a groan; wooden boards and corrugated metal nailed over the frame for a sliding-glass door make the construction heavier than it otherwise would be, but soon it’s shut again and Roadhog settles on the couch - some floral patterned thing where old and new bloodstains merely blend into the bouquets of printed roses.    
  
Jamison continues to sleep uninterrupted. They can have tea later. 


	8. Stock Grid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> buttz

Arms folded, Roadhog regarded his charge in silent exasperation, the Junker saying nothing as Junkrat paced up and down the gap between the fence posts, looking at the space which divided the two sides of land critically, occasionally reaching a foot out before withdrawing it, like testing the water before diving in.  
Roadhog snorted, an impatient ‘ _get with it already’_ that had the explosives enthusiast looking up, ears turning pink.  
  
“Oi mate, yer can’t like, I mean this ain’t exactly something I wanna _rush_ , just gimme a second, would’ja?”  
  
Junkrat regarded the two meters of ground in front of him with distaste: he might not have been the most well-liked person, but his one true enemy had never changed.   
_  
Stock grids._  
  
To far to jump across, and the pit beneath unnervingly deep, the last thing the explosives enthusiast wanted to do was get his peg leg stuck in the gaps between the bars.  
Roadhog’s rasping growl cut into Junkrat’s current train of thought abruptly. “Get over here or I’m carrying your scrawny ass over myself.”  
  
“No!” Using Roadhog as his own personal jungle gym was one thing, but getting carried like…like some kind of _kid_ was something else altogether.   
  
One step, two - Roadhog was already starting to come over and Junkrat skittered backwards before realisation hit him with a “Wait! I got it!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ll _jump_ over the fence!”   
  
“You’ll jump over the fence.” Roadhog intoned, block of a head turning towards the mess of four-and-a-bit foot high razor wire. There was a pause. “That’s it, I’m carrying you.”  
  
“Too late!” Junkrat ran back to get a good run-up before bounding over to the razor wire, long strides eating up arid and stony ground before the Junker leaped; hurdling over twisted, rusted barbs and jagged wire, his boot landing solidly on the other side-  
  
-while the frayed hem of his shorts became ensnared, the momentum dragging him backwards and slamming Junkrat’s chest to the ground, the foot that had landed had slid back with the force of it. And while Junkrat’s body wanted to go one way, his traitorous shorts were caught in place, and so to add insult to injury, legs a floundering mess - his shorts had been pulled down and away, his bare white ass stuck in the air like the cherry on top to an already shit-sundae.   
  
“Fuuuu _AUGH-!_ ”  
  
Roadhog had watched the entire spectacle silently and now a rasp, a coughing wheeze emanated from the mask.  
  
Junkrat, with his ego already haven taken a solid kicking, looked over from his current position. “Aw _mate_ -”  
  
Roadhog laughed, loud and unabashed, the rubber of his mask unable to contain the full rumble of mirth that poured from the giant of a man.   
  
Junkrat wiggled out of his shorts before getting to his feet and untangling them from the wire. Well, he _did_ get over the fence.


	9. Extra Bits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically little pieces of scenes that I don't really have room for anywhere else, had no intention of finishing, but figured I'd share anyway. They're all kind of related and was supposed to take place at the very beginning of their little partnership.  
> Warning for uhhh....very Australian swearing.

The sidecar was not an original feature.  
Initially, his beautiful metal and chrome beast hadn’t needed one - Roadhog traveled light and adding an extra seat invited the idea that he was open to passengers or comrade.

He was not.

Upon joining up with Junkrat however ‘ _why would I have a car, huh? I just go and borrow one on an extended loan, a-heh._ ’ the smaller man, despite the fact that was room enough for him to sit, insisted on clambering and scrabbling up Roadhog’s back like a damn monkey because he ‘wanted to see’ or it was 'boring as batshit’ with the additional, 'well if I’m sitting, it means I’m riding bitch, aren’t I?’

“You are a bitch,” Roadhog had rumbled, a wheeze punctuating his words as red dust whorled around them in a cloud. The newly-appointed bodyguard had pulled over _yet again_ due to Junkrat’s climbing antics. “A little one, at that.”

He’d considered ripping the peg-leg off the weasly little cunt but the discovery of an extremely strong magnet scavenged from a hard-drive provided a quick if not hilarious solution (for Roadhog anyway). It was soon replaced by a sidecar at the earliest possible convenience after he tired of Junkrat’s whining.

And that had been that.

* * *

  
Tarcoola had a dry heat like standing inside an oven; not close enough to the Great Bight, the air had an oppressive heat to it that towns closer to the South Australian coast didn’t. 

The low-riders engine ticking from recent use and cicadas screaming into the endless, cloudless sky, Roadhog sat against the trunk of burnt-out scribbly gum, drinking in the familiar peace brought with the midday heat. 

The quiet was short-lived.  
  
“ _ Sooo _ -” Junkrat was still wiping off the gore from their latest run-in with the most recent lot of outback wastelanders that wanted to pry his skull open; evidently, shooting off grenades was a messy business if you stood too close to a  _ meaty _ blast radius. He pointedly leaned over from where he stood, looking at the other man with brows raised, waiting for the other to respond.  
  
Roadhog stayed quiet.  
  
The over-eager bombs specialist had obviously been hoping that his new companion-cum-meatshield would pick up the thread of conversation, but Junkrat wasn't going to take Roadhog’s silence as a deterrent.  
  
“I get it, right? I mean you got the big-strong-silent-type  _ thing  _ going - which, yanno, I can totally respect n’ all - and I mean it’s a good thing yer got going an’ I imagine that what with us rowdy bunch of Junkers being th’ one to keep the -  _ ha! _ \- peace, yeah?”    
Another swipe of the grimy rag and Junkrat considered himself clean. Well,  _ cleanish _ . Baybe the brain matter would be easier to get out of his hair once it dried and crusted off in the sun. ”Which you know you seem pretty chill for a guy that just gave up all of his employment and his home and I dunno, family? Is there a Missus Roadhog? Little Streetpiglets running around?  _ Anyway _ , I mean, If we’re doing this. I mean, this whole ‘ _ youse prevent me from getting killed and then get half the cash _ ’ thing, I mean, We aught to get t’ know each other better, right? I mean stands t’ reason it does which is why,  _ yanno- _ ”   
  
Roadhog’s head had slowly swivelled towards him until it had stilled, the One Man Apocalypse looking Junkrat directly in the eye who faltered, mid-sentence at the sudden attention.  
  
“Uhm. Don’t yous get hot under that mask? Ya ever take it off?”    
  
“ _ No _ .”   
  
“No that you don’t get hot or-”   
  
Roadhog looked back pointedly, as if maybe inferring that was in fact,  _ none of Junkrat’s business _ but the blonde had not yet learned the syntax of Roadhog’s silences and pauses punctuated by the occasional grunt or sigh. Instead he took it as sign to continue.  
  
“Don’t yer think yer should? We gotta trust each other with this kinda deal, don’t we? I mean what if ya take it off and I don’t recognise you and then I die like, suddenly and horribly - but very heroically - because I don’t recognise this complete stranger whose job  _ should  _ be protecting me!”   
  
“The mask stays.”   
  
The demolitionist threw up his hands. “Don’t ya need to eat? Pick ya nose? Wipe those crusty bits from ya eyes from sleeping? I mean, do youse even sleep it’s kinda hard t’ tell what with how I can’t see ya eyes-”   
  
“The. Mask.  _ Stays _ .”   
  
Junkrat’s hands went on bony hips, his chin jutted out and he fixed the other man with a squinty look of utmost  _ dogged  _ determination. “....What if someone tried to rip it off ya face?  _ Huh? _ What then?”   
  
The larger man’s head tilted, lenses gleaming dully. “Why? Are you so desperate for another omnic limb?”   
  
Jamison Fawkes had been standing behind the door the day common sense had been passed out, but to him, Roadhog’s reply had only cemented in the young man’s mind that discovering what lied beneath Roadhog’s mask was a  _ secret _ . A  _ challenge _ .  
  
Perhaps if Roadhog hadn’t been quite so  _ vehement _ , so absolutely opposed to the mere  _ suggestion  _ that Junkrat got so much as the tiniest of peeks of what hid beneath his mask, the younger man probably wouldn’t have cared  _ quite  _ so much.   
  
As it were, it was the answer to a secret so readily,  _ tantalisingly  _ there despite the danger involved into getting it. Like a big, shiny red button with the words ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ in giant, neon lights.   
  
Junkrat had always been a  _ sucker  _ for red buttons.

* * *

  
  
Roadhog was quick, but Junkrat was _quicker_ , moving like his namesake; slippery, darting and agile as he clambered up the larger man’s side in scarcely a moment, despite having what looked like a repurposed pogostick for a leg.   
  
Perching on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his head, Junkrat pressed his face against the other Junkers, peering into the tinted lens of the gasmask like a child peeking through a hole in their neighbour’s fence while his fingers dug into straps and fondled clasps.    
  
“C’mon, lemme see! Just a  _ peek _ , I mean I ain’t gonna care if yer face is busted or ugly or anyth-  _ fuck! _ ”   
  
Roadhog had ripped him off in one solid pull, an enormous paw of a hand clenching around the repurposed tire on Junkrat’s back so forcefully, metal buckled and bent, rubber squeaking in protest as the newly inundated bodyguard shook his charge thoroughly before throwing Junkrat away into the dirt, the smaller man tumbling and rolling until he stopped; sore and disorientated.

  
Heavy, purposeful footsteps thudded over to where the bomber lay, dry red mud and dead scrub crackling underneath motorcycle boots with every step.   
  
270 kilograms of seething, barely-contained rage  _ loomed  _ over the dazed Junkrat (who had enough sense to try and scrabble backwards) until a huge steel-toed boot stomped on his prosthetic arm viciously, metal and gears screaming.   
Were it flesh and bone, the explosives enthusiast would’ve had a broken arm.    
  
Roadhog leaned down slowly, metal screeching under his foot as the glinting, dark lenses of his mask became level with Junkrat’s pale, clammy face.   
  
“Don’t  _ ever  _ touch my face again _. _ ”    
  
It wasn’t the volume that terrified him - Roadhog’s voice wasn’t even loud, but a deep, rasping and guttural rumble - but rather, the sincere  _ promise  _ that Junkrat would not be so fortunate should he try again.   
  
His bodyguard moved back towards his bike as if nothing had occurred, while Junkrat looked at his arm and winced, the metal noticeably crushed into the shape of a bootprint where Roadhog had stood.   
  
“ _Shit_.”   



End file.
